Zarius was entirely, utterly done with being sick.
For a man who had built his entire reputation on being an untouchable fortress of northern muscle and iron will, this nameless, strange affliction was humiliating. It wasn't a wound he could bandage, and it wasn't an enemy he could look in the eye and run a sword through.
It wore him down a little more each day. Every sunrise brought the same stabbing pain, and every sunset took it away again, leaving no explanation behind.
He had already dragged three different high-ranking physicians into his private chamber. He'd summoned every physician he could find and submitted to every examination they requested. None of them could tell him a damn thing. One had muttered about "bad air," another had blamed "excessive bile," and the third had simply looked terrified and handed him a useless jar of crushed willow bark.
Now, he was on his way to the capital.
